I haven't posted in awhile, I know
I kind of forgot all about this thing for awhile, but I guess I should pay more attention to it seeing as how I have it and all. I'm starting this writing series that will hopefully make me feel better when I'm at my worst. It's called "Things That Make Me Smile." And each story is about an incident where something small (usually) has made the world of difference. I wrote the first one, Saftey, awhile back, when Alex and I were still dating, but this still makes me smile so I figure it counts.
Also, I just made a wordpress (for fun) and I have 2 accounts, one for ad and one for personal stuff. I'm still working on the ad one because it's going to have my resume on it. But here's my person one: http://melstran.wordpress.com
I'll link my advertising one when it's complete. you guys can let me know what you think about it.
Anyways, here it is, sorry it's so long the cut won't work and it's too early for me to try and figure it out:
Movies have an extremely ridiculous way of portraying nightmares. Never have I woken up, screaming and abruptly sitting up in bed; I only wish I could tear my conscience away from these terrifying dreams so quickly, without any effort. Unscrupulous, trying effort. My eyes never just snap open and my mouth never allows anything coherent to come out of it. There are no frightful pleadings of “No!” nor are there any real sounds escaping my lips. Quite the contrary. My eyelids struggle against my body’s weariness, fighting sleep so I can make sure that I’m still alive-that everyone around me is still okay. An occasional whimper may manage to pry my lips apart, but this doesn’t happen often. Usually, there’s merely tossing, sweating, and shaking. And when I finally bring myself back to reality, the images have already embedded themselves conveniently into the depths of my brain, wiggling themselves into the crevices, stored away only to jump out into the forefront of my mind at any given time. The worst-or one of the worst-aspects of nightmares is their subtlety. I have never been able to predict their arrival; perhaps that attributes to the havoc they wreak. They sneak up on you when you’re at your most self-assured, then…BAM.
They hit you like your buddy hit the floor last Saturday night. At least he had alcohol in him. Most of the time, I can’t even remember what had me shaking and sweating, clutching onto my blanket for dear life, as if it could save me.
I awake from my nasty slumber and I have absolutely no idea why I am terrified, no idea how I got this scared, and only sure of one thing. I look around me in fear, reaching out for the one person I believe will keep me safe. I just need to know that he’s alive.
In the nightmare, he wasn’t.
He was cold, still, and blue. A blue-ish tint. My shaking hands reached out to him, palm against lifeless cheek. “Wake up,” I whispered. “It’s time to wake up, you have to get up.”
Nothing. My gentle strokes across his pale cheek turned into frantic shaking. My hands moved to his shoulders. I shook him-hard. “Please!” I begged. “Please! Wake up!” even though I knew that it was far too late for that kind of plea. My frenzied hands moved all over his body, desperate to find a warm spot, to find some sort of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he was still fighting. But everything was cold. Freezing cold.
“You can’t,” I gasped out, faintly wondering when I had started crying. “You can’t, you motherfucker. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Splash. Splash. Splash. Tears hit his lifeless body. He still hadn’t moved. Sirens in the distance. A pair of strong arms around my waist. Pulling me. Pulling me away.
“No!” My screams were piercing, sharply cutting through the night. It was supposed to be warm out. Why was I so cold? Screaming. Sirens. Silence. Slam.
The dorm room door shut behind his roommate. But the sound was still so distant. Struggling, I tried to pull myself back to the real world, to leave this horrific realm of pseudo-reality, to convince myself that it wasn’t real. Just a dream. My unconscious tried to coax me. Just a dream.
Finally. My heavy eyelids lifted up off my pupils. Darkness. My mind frantically raced, but my body resisted, still in its sleepy slumber. My eyes focused on his roommate’s bed, where the other boy was now peacefully asleep. I was jealous. It wasn’t until this point that the thought strikes me: Where is he?
I panic again. I grab for something, anything, but all I have in my hands is his fluffy blue-and-green comforter. My movements stir his slumbering body beside me on the snug twin bed and I let out a breath. At least I know he’s there. “What’s wrong?” he whispers, pressing his bare chest flush against my back, clothed in his oversized t-shirt. I haven’t even noticed the dried tears on my face.
“Go to sleep.”
“I can’t.” I whisper back, praying that the shakiness is but a figment of my imagination, that he can’t actually hear how scared I am. “I had a nightmare.”
He laughs and shakes his head against my back. “Go to sleep,” he repeats.
And, following his own instructions, he promptly falls back asleep. Not exactly the kind of reassurance I was looking for.
Heaving a sigh, I settle back into the blankets and try to will away those images that have resurfaced again-to no avail. I start to wonder if I’ll ever be able to fall asleep. His roommate’s clock reads 4:48 in bold, neon red numbers. I sigh again, shifting around in attempts to comfort myself.
A pair of strong arms-his arms-encircle my waist, fingers creeping under the shirt I’m wearing, palm splayed over my bare stomach. He tightens his grip on me and, unconsciously, he presses his lips against the back of my neck.
And it’s okay. I feel safe. A smile graces my lips and my exhaustion finally gets the best of me. Another sigh-of relief this time-and just like that, I’m asleep. Safely asleep.
Also, I just made a wordpress (for fun) and I have 2 accounts, one for ad and one for personal stuff. I'm still working on the ad one because it's going to have my resume on it. But here's my person one: http://melstran.wordpress.com
I'll link my advertising one when it's complete. you guys can let me know what you think about it.
Anyways, here it is, sorry it's so long the cut won't work and it's too early for me to try and figure it out:
Movies have an extremely ridiculous way of portraying nightmares. Never have I woken up, screaming and abruptly sitting up in bed; I only wish I could tear my conscience away from these terrifying dreams so quickly, without any effort. Unscrupulous, trying effort. My eyes never just snap open and my mouth never allows anything coherent to come out of it. There are no frightful pleadings of “No!” nor are there any real sounds escaping my lips. Quite the contrary. My eyelids struggle against my body’s weariness, fighting sleep so I can make sure that I’m still alive-that everyone around me is still okay. An occasional whimper may manage to pry my lips apart, but this doesn’t happen often. Usually, there’s merely tossing, sweating, and shaking. And when I finally bring myself back to reality, the images have already embedded themselves conveniently into the depths of my brain, wiggling themselves into the crevices, stored away only to jump out into the forefront of my mind at any given time. The worst-or one of the worst-aspects of nightmares is their subtlety. I have never been able to predict their arrival; perhaps that attributes to the havoc they wreak. They sneak up on you when you’re at your most self-assured, then…BAM.
They hit you like your buddy hit the floor last Saturday night. At least he had alcohol in him. Most of the time, I can’t even remember what had me shaking and sweating, clutching onto my blanket for dear life, as if it could save me.
I awake from my nasty slumber and I have absolutely no idea why I am terrified, no idea how I got this scared, and only sure of one thing. I look around me in fear, reaching out for the one person I believe will keep me safe. I just need to know that he’s alive.
In the nightmare, he wasn’t.
He was cold, still, and blue. A blue-ish tint. My shaking hands reached out to him, palm against lifeless cheek. “Wake up,” I whispered. “It’s time to wake up, you have to get up.”
Nothing. My gentle strokes across his pale cheek turned into frantic shaking. My hands moved to his shoulders. I shook him-hard. “Please!” I begged. “Please! Wake up!” even though I knew that it was far too late for that kind of plea. My frenzied hands moved all over his body, desperate to find a warm spot, to find some sort of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he was still fighting. But everything was cold. Freezing cold.
“You can’t,” I gasped out, faintly wondering when I had started crying. “You can’t, you motherfucker. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Splash. Splash. Splash. Tears hit his lifeless body. He still hadn’t moved. Sirens in the distance. A pair of strong arms around my waist. Pulling me. Pulling me away.
“No!” My screams were piercing, sharply cutting through the night. It was supposed to be warm out. Why was I so cold? Screaming. Sirens. Silence. Slam.
The dorm room door shut behind his roommate. But the sound was still so distant. Struggling, I tried to pull myself back to the real world, to leave this horrific realm of pseudo-reality, to convince myself that it wasn’t real. Just a dream. My unconscious tried to coax me. Just a dream.
Finally. My heavy eyelids lifted up off my pupils. Darkness. My mind frantically raced, but my body resisted, still in its sleepy slumber. My eyes focused on his roommate’s bed, where the other boy was now peacefully asleep. I was jealous. It wasn’t until this point that the thought strikes me: Where is he?
I panic again. I grab for something, anything, but all I have in my hands is his fluffy blue-and-green comforter. My movements stir his slumbering body beside me on the snug twin bed and I let out a breath. At least I know he’s there. “What’s wrong?” he whispers, pressing his bare chest flush against my back, clothed in his oversized t-shirt. I haven’t even noticed the dried tears on my face.
“Go to sleep.”
“I can’t.” I whisper back, praying that the shakiness is but a figment of my imagination, that he can’t actually hear how scared I am. “I had a nightmare.”
He laughs and shakes his head against my back. “Go to sleep,” he repeats.
And, following his own instructions, he promptly falls back asleep. Not exactly the kind of reassurance I was looking for.
Heaving a sigh, I settle back into the blankets and try to will away those images that have resurfaced again-to no avail. I start to wonder if I’ll ever be able to fall asleep. His roommate’s clock reads 4:48 in bold, neon red numbers. I sigh again, shifting around in attempts to comfort myself.
A pair of strong arms-his arms-encircle my waist, fingers creeping under the shirt I’m wearing, palm splayed over my bare stomach. He tightens his grip on me and, unconsciously, he presses his lips against the back of my neck.
And it’s okay. I feel safe. A smile graces my lips and my exhaustion finally gets the best of me. Another sigh-of relief this time-and just like that, I’m asleep. Safely asleep.